














;* • ■ ‘TOjW? • 










.4 ' 


* > •: 









,.W, V': v-a. 










* 






I 





ititfK?-. iS23 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















• . 



















I 







- 

. 





































b m -* * M 








































1 


T 








































PORTSMOUTH AND OTHER POEMS 


By The Same Author 

WAR SONNETS (gurrey’s ltd., Honolulu) 


PORTSMOUTH 

AND OTHER POEMS 


By 

BENJAMIN COLLINS WOODBURY 


‘ ‘My poetry has been to me a door. * ’ 

John Still 


boston 

PRESS OF GEO. H. ELLIS CO. (Inc.) 
1923 



COPYRIGHT I923 
BY 

BENJAMIN COLLINS WOODBURY 


* 


M > 


AUC 20 23 


©C1A752586 


I 


CONTENTS 


Dedication 

PAGE 

vii 

Tercentenary 

ix 

Portsmouth 

i 

East India Trade 

13 

Brown Study 

14 

The Isles of Shoals 

IS 

At Gosport 

16 

To Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

1 7 

To Albert Laighton 

18 

A Face 

19 

To C. E. Whiton-Stone 

20 

To Mary E. B. Miller 

22 

Lines to Shaw 

23 

The Sandpiper 

24 

The Sea Gull 

25 

Candle-light Service 

26 

To John Paul Jones 

2 7 

Processional 

28 

To Emerson Hovey 

29 

To Rev. Alfred Gooding 

30 

The Players 

3 i 


v 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The Ghosts of Song 

32 

To an Old Mansion 

34 

To Thomas Neil 

36 

The Sun-Dial 

39 

A La Mode 

40 

“Das Zerbrochene Ringlein” 

4i 

The Wind’s Lament 

42 

The Olympic Host 

43 

Musagetes 

44 

Sonnet 

45 

To John Keats 

46 

Forget Not Thou 

4 7 

The Lady of the Sonnets 

48 

April 

49 

The Violet 

50 

Pilgrims 

5i 

Memorials 

52 

Tut-Ankh-Amen 

53 


TO THE POETS OF PORTSMOUTH 


I’ve read thy verses and thy varied lays, 
Thy precious gifts to poetry divine— 
Rare offerings to sacred Muse’s shrine. 
Thy voices echo down the thronging days, 
As gentle music on the ocean plays, 

To songs inspire. In effort such as mine 
I dedicate to thee this faltering line— 
May future generations sing thy praise. 




TERCENTENARY 

Glad bells ring out: let all your guns salute; 

A mighty salvo to this Gala day! 

Blow, trumpets, blow—give unrestraint her way. 
Luxuriant summer breathes upon her lute 
And pensive Pan pipes on his forest flute. 

Let Age rejoice and Youth be blitheful, gay— 
The city celebrates her birth to-day; 

Let rocks their silence into song transmute. 

The hills with mirth and joyous laughter ring, 
The river marches by on dress parade, 

The heavens clap their hands and anthems sing, 
The sea is in her navy blue arrayed, 

The clouds scud by in ruff and high cockade— 

As in the Merrie days of Martin Pring! 


IX 


The country is the face of God 
That shines eternally; 

The river is the heart of God 
That beats unceasingly; 

The ocean is the soul of God 
That lives immortally. 


PORTSMOUTH 


For spirits when they please, 

Can either sex assume, or both. 

Paradise Lost . 

Portsmouth is growing old, 

There’s no doubt about it. 
Hermaphrodite city— 

Last night I passed along its streets. 

As I walked in the shadows 
It passed me— 

The Man-woman, 

Yes, growing old, 

There’s not the slightest doubt. 

Its houses, some of them, 

Are falling to decay, 

Its churches overgrown with moss. 

And ivy, creeping parasite, 

Climbs in jealous wonderment 
Upon its new possessions. 

Old places like this 
Do decay. 

Old institutions 

Like old horse and shay, 

Get tired, go lame, 

And finally fall. 

Old customs, only cling 
Like some nameless thing, 

Seeming to thrive 


I 




Upon the nutriment 
From rain-washed niche 
In flag and cobble-stone. 

Old perfumes linger, 

Seeming to depress 
The sea-blown air. 

Odors of the wharves 
And ghostly hulks of ships 
Long since graved 
In crumbling dock 
Or shipyard gone to rot. 

Aristocracy lives on, 

A smouldering fire 
Fanned on the instant 
By some new scion’s birth— 
Aristocracy, 

T radition-weighted, 
Royalty-inflated, 

Ready to flame anew. 

Old laws and orders 
Die, Oh so hard— 

In an old Town. 

So time wags on, 

Relentless still, 

Unheeding the wailing 
The plaintive pleading 
Of the old days. 


2 


Yet we must admit 
That if the Town 
Grows old, 

It likewise too 
Grows new. 

So I watched this Figure 
Time-worn and old, 

As it passed me. 

It was old— 

Yet I could plainly see 
That the Man-part 
Was still most manly; 

That it had the atmosphere 
Of sturdy chivalry. 

Though its faded coat 
Was worn 

And lacked a button 
Here and there, 

I clearly noticed 
When it passed 
An old-time rendezvous, 

It raised its withered arm 
In courteous salute. 

Likewise as it passed 
An ancient corner, 

Lit by modern tone, 

Or paused 


3 


To drop a word or two 
At a curbing 
With a friend 
Also grown old; 

They turned and trudged 
Contentedly away,— 
Home to glowing embers, 
There to sit beside 
The self-same hearth 
Within the quiet room 
In which their 
Closest kin had died. 

It was gladdening to see 
With what a grace, 

And how reverently still 
They bent, 

Each to his task,— 

These wraiths 
Of Yesterday, 

These posters 
Of the Past. 

The Man-part, 

If I saw aright— 

It was difficult 
In such a fading light— 
And viewing one so thin 
To see aright 
Unless one look within 


4 


These crumbling shells 
That falling fast 
To dust still hold 
A fragrant remnant 
Of the past. 

The bended form 
The evening shadows 
Fell upon, 

Still boasted 
Of its eyebrows— 

Shaggy, bushy to the last; 
From deep o’erhanging brows 
Eyes glittered, 

Eyes that were sea-blue. 

Faded, whitish 
Locks of hair 
That once a Brummell 
Well might boast 
Bore semblance still 
Of being closely cut. 

A modern roll of collar 
Which, to one who knew 
Just how in olden time 
The stock was worn, 

But seemed ill-fitting 
And much out of place 
Upon a neck 
Once clothed with grace. 


5 


But still despite 
This modern dress, 

The stock somehow 
Cropped out. 

So too the ruffles 
And a little lace 
In pantaloons or hose 
Were there in essence, 

If usurped by modern mode. 

Long I watched 
The frail, bent Figure; 

Watched him down the curb, 
Around the corner— 

Lest a passing cab 
Or hansom injure him, 

Or some careless boy 
Should taunt him with 
His helplessness, 

And jolt him with an elbow— 
Unacquainted yet 
With nature’s greatness. 

I hope he safely 
Reached his home; 

Because I somehow liked him 
For his gentle airs and manners. 

But soft; the vision fades. 

The Woman-part 


6 


I saw approaching, 

So I could only 
Watch the Man-part 
Out of sight, 

As slowly in the night 
It disappeared. 

She whom I saw 
Approaching me, 

Despite the dimness, 

Still wore a quaint old gown 
Such only as now seen 
In rare collection 
Of treasures priceless valued 
For their past associations 
And suggestions. 

Womanly was this Figure. 

In part because 
In all her womanness, 

She had been master 
Of it all— 

Recipient of all 
The old-time past 
Can bring to us 
Of that humanity 
That was and still is in 
An old town like this. 

In many ways 

She showed the travail 


7 




Of both the births 
And sorrows she had borne 
In the doing of her part 
In this old Town’s existence. 

I am sure we owe to her 
Much that we cannot pay; 
So we’ll allow 
The honest debt 
To stand a while. 

It is not easy now 
To pay, 

Because somehow 
She suffered so 
In its making. 

She was womanly still 
Because she had been 
The mother of brave sons, 
Who in the days long past 
Had gone away to war, 

And not come back; 
Womanly because 
She had borne 
Her joy and sorrow, 

And had not complained. 

Womanly because 
She had a lady’s grace, 

A charm of speech, 


8 


An air of old-time 
Beauty still, 

Which dropped 
In jewels from her eyes 
And sparkled 
In the ringlets of her hair. 

Despite its scant 
And modern lines, 

Her gown was flawless; 

Sleeves where lace still clung— 
Fragments from a former time 
Of long and narrow pattern; 
Hands shrank modestly 
From showing all uncovered; 
Hair outstanding 
Seemed only in the fancy 
Still to shade 
Into a dash of powder 
Left from long ago. 

If skirt 

Seemed long and full 
Of flounces, 

It was the fashion 
In her young days 
So long ago. 

But her face— 

You should have seen it: 


9 


Such a picture— 

Surely age 

Hereon had left no mark; 

Ah yes: look closer— 

In the fading light 

It was but natural 

That you would be deceived— 

And then you’d know 

Her way it was 

Of smiling 

Many years ago, 

Of smiling with 
Her eye?, her hair, 

And even with 
Her tossing head. 

So she caught me 
With the host 
That she had captivated 
Long ago; 

She entranced me, 

Yes, bewitched me. 

Quick I hurried 
To entrap her 
On the doorway, 

As she stooped 
To find the key. 

But I missed her; 

As I reached the old porch-door, 


io 


The latch she lifted— 
Then she vanished. 

And my fancy, 

Fairy questing, 

Though I eager 
Looked in vain, 

Left no trace 
Except the echo 
Of her joyous laughter— 
And a perfume 
Dropped like incense 
From the sachet 
That she wore. 

So illusive 

Is the essence 

Of the fading, dying past, 

Like the death of 

Some choice flower 

Living after 

Bloom is o’er— 

Still entrancing, 

Ever fragrant 
As the blossoms 
That it bore. 

Some may say 
And oft repeat it 
That they feel 


n 


This presence still; 

But at best they 
Only sense it— 

Its subtle atmosphere 
On the air still lingers, 
Wafted down 
The quiet streets. 

Growing old—yes, 

Old in beauty, 

Old in culture, 

Change, decay— 

Still there walks 
The quaint old Figure 
In its covering of Clay; 

But its life 
Is of the Spirit, 

Which is young as Yesterday. 


12 


EAST INDIA TRADE 


Adown the slanting vistas of the past, 

Where merchantmen with billowed sailcloth clip 
By crumbling wharves, decaying moss-grown 
slip— 

Within its web tradition holds us fast, 
Spellbound, entranced, while mind of man doth 
last. 

Vague fantasy—the faint and measured dip 
Of spirit oars, of spirit-haunted ship. 

Re-echoes on the rim of ocean vast. 

Spiced perfumes of the sandalwood and grape 
Long, long distilled awake in memory 
The ghostly forms and fading astral shape 
Of men long gone who plied the restless sea— 
Forgotten names and faces far that gape 
Across the years—a lost antiquity. 


13 


BROWN STUDY 


A winter morning, by the backlog lit, 

The guest of host most cultured and genteel, 

A nobleman of graceful, gentle weal— 

Around me shadows in the firelight flit, 

Ancestral forms, odd glints of satire, wit. 

From out the flame I fashion ship and keel— 

A Pilgrim band, with flash of flint and steel 
Adown the stream come drifting bit by bit. 
Historic shapes, traditions—stone by stone 
The Builders and their works I visualize— 

The hook and crane, the kettle’s simmering 
moan; 

A snap from hearth as forest monarch dies— 

The manor-room—I find myself alone, 

Companion to the denizens of skies. 




THE ISLES OF SHOALS 


Ye poet-haunted reefs and rocky shoals, 

Ye verse-enchanted Islands,—to exploring band 
The palmistry of God’s age-furrowed hand, 
Pre-natal chart of vagrant fisher souls— 

Where still the Muse thy magic charm extols 
A vanished village on thy shores did stand 
Long tenanted by hosts from No-man’s land— 
Nomadic villagers—where ocean rolls. 

Romantic islets where the sun beguiles, 

Arcadia, thy wind- and wave-swept shore 
Is satiate with summer’s blossomed smiles. 

And rapturous with songs, poetic lore, 

Thou art a dream Republic—mid thy ocean isles, 
Utopia—still sung from Appledore. 


AT GOSPORT 


Historic chapel builded on a rock, 

With belfry quaint and bell of silent tones— 
Long ankylosed, as prehistoric bones 
Of ocean monster, tongue of giant roc. 

To sacred worship mid the billowy moans, 

Do often to thy high-back pew-chairs stalk 
The Sleepers, from each pillared mound of stones, 
And saintly Shepherd of departed flock? 

Unswerving doth thy stony mission stand, 
Unmoved as yonder Navigator’s tomb; 

Relentless as the wrack of savage hand, 
Wind-blown, sand-strewn, and watered by the 
spume 

Of mighty seas. Aloft night’s flaming wand 
Protects the spray-born offspring of thy womb. 


16 


TO THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

“Minstrel of the Singing Heart ”—Robert Bridges. 

Yours was a finer sense than touch of pen, 

A finer voice than mere melodic strain, 

O magic Singer, of transcendent vein. 

As through a world of kings and noblemen 
You passed a king—uncrowned of men. 

For you a loftier throne, a nobler reign 
Than earth could give—to fair Elysian plain 
Your spirit soared to realm of supermen. 

O Lyrist, how your songs of laughter rang 
In eager youth, through boyhood’s happy dell. 
In manhood how your music sweeter sang, 

Till on the heights a whisper gently fell. 

O ‘Singing Heart’—your soul seraphic sprang 
Into the blue, through gates of Asphodel! 


1 7 


TO ALBERT LAIGHTON 


Thou gentle poet, whose melodious lays 
Did seek in simple strain to glorify, 

The common lot of man to deify. 

Thy gift of song hath been thy meed of praise, 
Hath filled the bounteous measure of thy days. 
Thy lyric art did ever beautify, 

Make humble task more fair beneath the sky, 
With blessings gleaned along life’s varied ways. 

Unnumbered are the host that bear the name 
Of poet, who to poesy aspire. 

Amid the stream of seekers after fame, 

Few searching find the inner hidden fire, 

The secret altar lit by sacred flame, 

The lofty temple of thy soul’s desire. 


18 


A FACE 


(On viewing a portrait of Celia Thaxter 
in the Portsmouth Public Library) 

The glory of that face—I wonder who 
Thou art! Such only can immortal be— 

A face like those who shining glories see. 

So sad and tender, beautiful and true— 

The face of one who joy and pain once knew, 
But loosed from bondage of the flesh and free 
Hath flown in transport up to heaven and Thee! 
An angel face, of God’s Immortal few. 

Still on the breezes rising homeward float 
Thy songs that from the crags of Appledore 
Reverberate in airy, fluted note; 

Thy music flying to that farther shore, 

As if upon the ear from angel throat, 

Resounds in echoes, dying nevermore. 


19 


TO C. E. WHITON-STONE 


Sun-crowned are you, as snow-capped moun¬ 
tain peak. 

Aloft, above the slopes where mist-clouds rest, 
Where eagle circles round her dizzy nest;— 
Within that azure realm which true hearts seek 
You dwell: wherein no petty fault, nor weak 
Assails, where hope but seeks maternal breast, 
Where Love its own unto its own is pressed. 
Then on and on beyond all earthly reek— 

A realm where soaring soul more light, more free 
Than body, form, or trammeled human clay— 
In which doth beat no sound of fitful sea, 

No darksome night, no shadow by the way; 

But rest long sought, one vast eternity 
And just the calm of bright ethereal day. 


20 


O you who joyful in your heaven dream, 

Will beckon faintly from the land of bliss? 
Though you are gone to join the host we miss, 
Divinest Singer, when the visions seem 
So sweet, why mourn? The twilight’s purpling 
gleam 

Fades into night. The sunlight’s roseate kiss 
Awakes the morn, for you, for you and This— 
The Universe, untimed to-morrows beam. 

Brief dream of life: each day a dream, a year 
Whose brief concourse but dulls the bitter sting; 
To him the crown who casteth out all fear. 

O Dreamer, as your songs forever sing, 

Falls gently from the lid of time a tear 
For you who soaring brushed an angel’s wing. 


21 


TO MARY E. B. MILLER 


What loyal, Christ-like faith hast thou, 

As journeying through the round of fleeting years 
Or walking on the sea of bitter tears, 

Who faithful makest daily pledge and vow, 

As ever in the past, so even now. 

Or oft hast stood at lonely silent biers 
And lit the faces sad with future fears, 

So radiant is thine own illumined brow. 

Above thy head a circlet of pure light 
Shines forth each passing day more fair. 

Upon thy face serene an inner light 
Of holiness is manifested there. 

Thou singer of such unalloyed delight, 

As sweet for thee may be thy closing air. 


22 


LINES TO SHAW 

(On his Tribute to Celia Thaxter) 

Poetic fashioner of verse, thy lines 
Portray a fond appreciative art, 

A beauty whence eternal wellsprings start 
Of inspiration, which like rare old wines 
But mellow, soften as the dew refines 
And nectar to the blossoms doth impart, 

Or love implants its seedlings in the heart— 

Thus nature to each soul its gifts assigns. 

The subject of thy muse-inspired songs, 

This Singer, oft the captivating theme 
Of poet, dreamer,—to the host belongs 
Who threaded paths which more enchanting seem 
Mid passing time—as ever in life’s throngs 
The gaps are filled with pageantry of dream. 

For Justin Henry Shaw 


23 


THE SANDPIPER 

(On reading Celia Thaxter’s poem by the same name) 

I wonder where you, joyful, are to-day 
As by the sea, among the rocks I sit; 

Where doth your wary, restless spirit flit? 

I seek you where of old upon the way 
Across my path your shadow used to stray. 
I wonder would you, haughty, care a whit, 
As gathering your nestwood bit by bit, 

If I should ask you join me in my play? 

I wonder if alone you fain would be 
And unmolested would your passage steer, 
As boldly on the shore you strut, nor fear; 
Companionship you scorn, so wild, care-free 
O winged poster of the sea-sands drear, 

O boasted piper of the sounding sea. 


24 


THE SEA GULL 


White-winged messenger of light, 

Who spreadst thy pinions in their eager scope 
Beyond the earth where blindly men still grope. 
On star-tipped wings to what a fearsome height 
Thou soarest till, in bold Icarian flight, 

We tremble lest—the sun’s fair paramour— 
Enamored, in thy freedom thou wilt soar 
Beyond the darkling shadows of the night. 

But not aloft dost thou forever sail 
In hazard flight, for oft with ready feet 
Descending dost on breaking wave impale 
Thyself, with creaking, fearless cry to greet 
The coming storm. But if thy power fail— 
Landlocked thou art, with grass thy winding- 
sheet. 


25 


CANDLE-LIGHT SERVICE 

(Star Island) 

The last lamp gleams. To silent inner call 
The faithful pilgrim worshipers of night, 

A solemn, dim procession in the light 
Of glowing lanterns, to the chapel small 
Their winding pathway wend, where one and all 
In mute surprise and holy wonder plight 
Supreme allegiance mid divine delight, 

While on their heads the dews of mercy fall. 

Forth from the mount, transfigured in the stream 
Of shifting silver light, they downward pass 
And vanish in the evening’s softening beam, 

Like mystic mummers celebrating mass. 

The candles fade to moonlight’s mellow gleam— 
A cloister mirrored in a sea of glass. 


26 


TO JOHN PAUL JONES 

Within these walls, here oft you weary strove. 
From out this Town, historic in its name 
Went Ranger forth to battle scars and fame— 
Triumphant task. Doth oft your spirit rove 
Beyond the bounds where silent anchor hove, 

As sailing sea, in ship of noble frame, 

To refuge seek in harbor whence you came 
And solace find in time’s eternal grove? 

Think not the agile Shape I dimly see 
Flecking the twilight shades with hidden fears,— 
This sturdy form would startle such as me. 

I wonder if your soul, amid the years, 

Has not “begun to fight” your name to free, 

Your face unveil, from out its mist of tears? 

Written at the John Paul 

Jones House , Portsmouth , July 4, 1913 


2 7 


PROCESSIONAL 


(In commemoration of the custom of throwing flowers 
into the flowing waters for those who died at sea) 

Respect is here and Honor rides before. 

To such a fete, earth’s sacred garlands bring. 

To such a rite love’s fond memorials cling, 

And Joy is here, as buoyant as of yore 
When silent Host the flag of Freedom bore— 

The banner to whose stars we paeans sing 
And tributes to the ebbing waters fling 
To unknown dead who loyal color wore. 

The young, the old, the sleeveless and the gay, 
With wreath and sword they march to measured 
tread;— 

Can mirth avail to wash the tears away, 

Can years efface the blood of martyr’s bed? 
November’s frown makes glad the smile of May; 
Let silence sing its masses to our dead. 


28 


TO EMERSON HOVEY 


With sword unsheathed, alone and unafraid, 

Into the jungle where dark perils lurked 
Your trusted band you led, nor duty shirked. 

In face of treacherous foe your naked blade 
Against your country’s flag a barricade. 

The fusillade—the fiends had done their will; 

The sudden calm—your noble heart was still— 
Love’s sacrifice upon death’s altar laid. 

In youthful strength, in manhood’s sterling pride, 
You freely gave your life upon the field. 

No more is asked, no more can mortal give. 

Your bravery shall be a shining shield, 

Your name as one in memory shall live, 

Who kept the faith and as a hero died. 


29 


TO REV. ALFRED GOODING 

(On his thirtieth anniversary as min¬ 
ister of the South Parish Church) 

With those whose names adorn this hallowed 
place, 

Whose memories and lives we venerate, 

Whose hundred years we here commemorate, 
Whose godlike deeds nor time nor years efface; 
These cherished halls where noble sires sate— 
A generation we seek yet to emulate— 

Thy face the last but not the least doth grace. 

While o’er the arch of time’s encircling span 
Thy ministry hath traced its thirty years, 

Still more and more as minister and man 
Thy wisdom guides and helpful counsel cheers. 
As ever since thy pastorate began 
Thy dignity abides, thy charm endears. 


30 


THE PLAYERS 

(Dedicated to the Players Club of Portsmouth) 

0 would some wit, some seer the lines would say, 
A satire write upon the Living Stage, 

A sonnet breathe upon its dismal page 
As round the boards the player gropes his way, 
And mewling, carping, mouths his dreary lay. 

O would the voice of critic or of sage, 

When writing on the spirit of the Age, 

Create an actor worthy of the Play. 

Each tiny member of the noble Cast 
Who fain would make realities of dreams, 

Who merges future with the present, past, 

By mimic gesture, classic art, and themes 
Doth make our lives less dreary while they last, 
And every part that’s acted all it seems. 


3i 


THE GHOSTS OF SONG 


“So I have singing birds all the year round.” 

T. B. Aldrich: Miss MehetaheVs Son. 

Who hath not heard on a winter night 
When snug within by hearthfire bright, 

The chirp and twitter in the applewood 
As night puts on her dusky hood. 

Who, when the heart with joy was filled, 
Hath not with dart of pain been thrilled 
At sudden shrill and piercing note— 

Almost as if from human throat— 

A cry for help from luckless worm 
That crawled for shelter from the storm 
Within the wood—the ghosts of song 
Of songsters who to sleep have gone, 

Who sang last year upon its bough— 

Oh, where, sweet singers, are you now? 

With summer suns you built your nest 
And on its leafy boughs did rest. 

So now the sound of snapping log 
Reminds me, mid my drowsy nod— 

Of how you sang mid summer days, 

As on the blossoms sunlight plays. 
Imprisoned worm or space-free bird, 

Your voice shall evermore be heard. 

Your soul shall mount to higher skies, 

Shall sing mid stormy, wintry days. 

So daily shall I feel your charms 


32 


Till nestled in God’s loving arms 
Both bird and Love shall fold its wing 
And I, dear bird, shall hear you sing! 


33 


TO AN OLD MANSION 


Gaunt spectre of a bygone age, 

Thou standest after spans of years 
Have passed thee by and left no trace 
Upon thy grandeur, shape, and place. 

Among thy forest trees still stand 
To guard thee towering chimneys grand, 

Where blazing logs sent forth their fire 
From massive hearth to lofty air. 

Ye ancient halls that once with mirth 
Re-echoed, as the parting guests 
With merry voices took their leave,— 

Those cheery faces round the board 
With nature’s graces blest— 

So long since gone—few left to grieve. 

O vanished splendor of a vanished age! 

What bard hath sung thee, or what modern sage 
Could paint anew from record page 
Thine ancient canvas on a modern stage. 

Tell me, soughing pines 
And gnarled and curling oaks, 

Do oft at night—the mirth and laughter o’er,— 
Stalk forth the guests 
From bolted oaken door? 

Or often when the city sleeps,— 

His guests made heavy, spite their roaring jests, 


34 


From bowls of punch and rum the best— 

Doth rise from table and the sleeping guests, 

Thy builder, Mansion, to his rest? 

And to thy spacious attic floor, 

Now musty with the dust of yore, 

All unattended grope his way— 

By what strange impulse moved to slay 
Himself—as guests depart ere day? 

And if perchance one wake at night 
From nightmare, dream, or other fright, 

Would thou, O Builder, in the moonlight oft, 
Thine own grim hangman, swing aloft? 

Captain Samuel Ham, builder of the Governor Levi Woodbury 
House, after a banquet celebrating its completion, is said to 
have hanged himself in one of the upper rooms. 


35 


TO THOMAS NEIL 


Your name, Sir, I do hold in high respect. 

Upon the branches of your natal tree 
Are grown a famous and long family. 

I’ve looked for long upon you as a friend, 

And many things I’d like to say to you. 

I’ve known you, Sir, a dozen years or more— 

It seems to me I count them by the score. 

Hale, sturdy friend, a patriarch of old, 

A gentleman of that rare school of yore 
Which haply we would welcome back once more; 
Whose sires cherished honor next to life 
And name and ancestry o’er war and strife. 

I look with solemn wonder on your years, 

Your stalwart frame, your hearty voice that cheers. 
And now, I’m told, you bear the honored name 
Of Portsmouth’s oldest living resident. 

How am I in my infancy content 
To think in terms of ordinary span, 

When here at last I look upon a man! 

A man to whom the three score years and ten 
Must seem the mouthing of a race of men 
Grown sordid to the light divine within, 

By which our souls by groping enter in 
To conscious unity of time and space, 

And age and death by wisdom’s ways erase. 

When you stood up foursquare at thirty-nine 
Wore beaver hats, and men drank toasts in wine, 


36 


Did you once think the time would ever be 
When we should drink your health at ninety- 
three? 

If only man who carves his gods from clay 
The secret of eternal youth could learn 
Before the sands of life are drained away, 

Before the urn wherein his ashes burn 

Is cold—proud man whose dust disintegrates— 

Could shape anew the body’s ultimates; 

Then, humble, might he claim himself to be 
The offspring of a true divinity. 

I fancy scarcely any one remains 

Save you who knows of those old merchant days; 

The days of sandalwood and rum and chaise, 

The days of clipper-ships and merchantmen, 
When masters shipped as cabin-boys at ten. 

Your age was fond of lecture and debate. 

No doubt you sat till very, very late, 

Within the Cameneum’s crowded halls 
When Fuller introduced the men of note; 

When voice of Phillips, Chapin, Choate 
And clarion tone of Beecher shook its walls. 

There’s just one older man in this old Town, 

And he it is they call Old Father Time! 

His hair is gray, his face is gaunt and brown 
As if he’s used to every kind of clime. 

I wonder what he’d think to celebrate 


37 


A birthday now and then—at eighty-eight— 
Or what a flippant farce he’d think ’twould be 
For us to drink your health at ninety-three. 
I’ve often thought he had designs on me,— 

But he respects a man at ninety-three. 

And if at forty I should be alive, 

He’d doff his hat to you at ninety-five! 

Should I but chance to pass your way at night 
And hap, amid the dusk of evening light, 

To meet the old Scythe-bearer on his rounds 
And find him bent on checking up his score, 

I’d try to keep his sickle out of bounds 
And try to make him seek some other door! 


38 


THE SUN-DIAL 


I daily sit within my bower 
And happy mark each shining hour 
Though pilot I the passing one 
No mark I make, unless the sun 
Lift up his shining face to God, 

As slowly on my round I plod. 

But when my face is wrapped in gloom, 
Likewise is dimmed the flower’s bloom. 
So mark I only from my tower 
Each sunniest day, each brightest hour. 
And he who would with me keep pace 
Must show himself a shining face. 


39 


A LA MODE 


Fair Courtesy, a gallant gay, 

Met Mistress Fashion by the way, 

And lowly bowed he with a grace 
That well became the time and place. 

Milady looked into his eyes, 

And caught her gay reflection; 

With sharp disdain, to his surprise, 

She tossed back his confection. 

Just then there passed on tired steed, 
Sincerity, true Knight indeed; 

His war-stained coat and lace loose-flung, 
Around his arm that helpless hung. 

But one fond look between them passed, 
As wearily his way he asked;— 

The Gallant watched them down the road, 
The charger limping with his load. 


40 


“DAS ZERBROCHENE RINGLEIN” 

(From the German) 


Within the cool earth runneth 
The wheel of the weary mill. 

But alas! My love hath vanished— 
Her cot stands yonder still. 

Her love for me had spoken 
And I the ring did buy; 

But now her promise broken, 

The ring in twain doth lie. 

And oh, to journey away 
The great wide world to face; 

Daily to sing my joyless lay 
As I wander from place to place. 

Or else as a knight to fly 
To the thick of the bloody fight, 

To lie by the fires and gaze at the sky 
On the Field in the sombre night. 

I hear the mill-wheel sighing 
And do whatever I will, 

I think when in death I am lying 
It will be so calm and still. 


41 




THE WIND’S LAMENT 


Blow on, little Wind, 

So soft, so swift, so fleet; 

The brook, the hart, and bird behind 
You leave with magic hurrying feet. 

Make haste, little Wind: 

Last night you kissed the fresh green bud 
And on your way you sped; 

This morn, before the sun arose, 

Before your quick return, 

At break of dawn, with robin’s song 
There blushed the full blown rose. 

Blow on, little Rose, 

Till, sun-caressed 

Your silky petals fall to rest 

On gentle Nature’s soft, green breast. 

Blow on, little Wind, 

Not swift enough your flight— 

Your soft caress brings but the day, 

Your kiss but turns the blush to night, 
And blows the tears away. 


42 


THE OLYMPIC HOST 

The Olympic host could only stand and stare, 
Arrayed, aligned with martial pomp and mien. 
Such sight imposing never eye had seen,— 
Majestic Jupiter, with ambrosial hair, 

With eagle, scepter, on his royal chair; 

Lanuvian Juno decked in purple sheen, 

Of heavenly spheres and starry realms the queen— 
Bright bow of iris on her brow doth wear. 

At Jovian nod the bolts of thunder flew, 

And lesser gods in suppliance bending low— 

The Titans, Muses, Graces, one and all— 

In order passed, displayed in grand review. 

To bacchic strain, celestial lamps aglow, 

To lyre-note they passed—down the great Hall! 


43 


MUSAGETES* 

(With apology to Shakespeare’s thirty-eighth sonnet) 

Who, jesting, would another Muse invoke, 
Or desecrate the mantle of the Nine 
Except in silly badinage and joke— 

Or do alone men speak the truth in wine? 
Doth not fair Clio her exploits relate, 
Euterpe with her music’s heavenly fire, 

With comedy, gay Thalia satiate? 

Doth not Polymnia thee with hymns inspire, 
Terpsichore with choral dance and song, 
Melpomene with tragedy conspire, 

Star-eyed Urania with celestial throng, 
Erato’s verses or the sacred lyre, 

Calliope, vain man, thy fancies please?— 

I give thee god of all—Musagetes. 

*Title ascribed to Apollo as leader of the Muses. 


44 



SONNET 


Night is thy crown—so rare and costly set 
With silver jewels, neath whose glittering rim 
There flows the light of hidden fires dim, 
Reflected from the day’s gold-figured fret. 

For earthly head a lesser coronet, 

Could we but guess the source of all its glow— 
The starry paths where comets come and go— 
A single secret of the heart—or yet 
The riddle of the body, soul and mind— 

If infinite the vision—swift and free 
We’d wing our flight beyond the blue to Thee, 
Leaving the bonds of earthly cares behind, 
Before Thy throne we’d bow imploring down 
And beg a single jewel from Thy crown. 


45 


TO JOHN KEATS 

Thou architect incomparable of rhyme. 

Beneath thy palms mid sylvan glades where ran 

Bacchantic revelers, where hoofs of Pan 

Beat still, unshod, was couched thy magic mime. 

Thy song is heard in every age and clime. 

Incarnate in its classic, priestly clan 

The Grecian spirit breathes in modern man— 

Immortal name upon the scroll of time. 

Poet of youth, eternal is thy fame. 

Thy highest joy, thy duty’s faithful choice 
Before the world didst hold for praise or blame. 
In Beauty did thy gallant heart rejoice, 

The worship of thy soul was in its name— 

To this alone did heaven shape thy voice. 


46 


FORGET NOT THOU 

(Suggested by Rossetti’s Sonnet entitled “Remember”) 

Forget not thou—unless the wish be wrong 
For comradeship along life’s lonely way, 

A hand to press, a friend to make thee gay— 
Forget not me, when other memories throng, 

Our souls to all the ages do belong. 

The heart grows sad, repining day by day, 

Forget not thou—lest erring spirit stray— 
Forget not, let thy love grow ever strong. 

Not all of life is living to forget, 

To find the twilight fading into night— 

Mid joys unnumbered since at first we met, 

Or waiting till life’s dream grows ever bright; 
Not half the pain of loving to regret, 

But waiting till the dream becomes delight. 


47 


THE LADY OF THE SONNETS 

(On reading Browning’s “One Word More”) 

Is there some lady, may we not enquire, 

From whom, O Browning, quite apart from book 
Or poem, from whose hidden word or look, 

Thine eager brain did catch its magic fire, 
Its Orphean strain, attuned to heaven’s lyre? 
Some phantom spirit haunting fairy nook 
Of vanished Eden which the gods forsook— 

Or doth the Muse herself thy lines inspire? 

Thou, Master, spake, and to thy waiting heart 
The weary soul with voice impassioned cried— 
Inhabitant of prisoned world apart— 

“Though oft I tread a trackless waste and wide, 
Sun of my life, my deity, my art— 

Without thy love, thy self, my soul had died.” 


48 


APRIL 


Distant the sun that climbs bare April’s hill, 
That glistens like a golden scimitar, 

The shield of bright Apollo in his car— 

Distant but warm: beyond the swirling rill 
The coursing current bounds in joyous thrill. 

The ghost of winter in his whited hood 

Folds close his cloak and seeks the shaded wood, 

While forth there creeps the sprite of gay April! 

Up leaps the sap in waiting twig and vine, 
Obedient to mood of Nature wise; 

The Sun-god floods his press with sparkling wine. 
Each opening bud that latent dreaming lies, 
Responsive to the inner urge divine, 

In soul of faith to God doth lift its eyes. 


49 


THE VIOLET 


Sequestered, of the garden old a part, 

And sheltered neath its web of tangled leaves 
The azure flower on its soft stem grieves. 

For love, companionship it sighs. Its heart 
In sorrow bleeds—while from its eyelids start 
The purple tears. As time her garland weaves, 
Until another spring the pale bed leaves 
Unkept, except as fringe for garden art. 

To Love the flower breathes a plaintive song 
That tells of beauteous summer passing soon— 
Yet to the garden nothing doth belong 
So blue as violets. The budding moon 
Will round, and creep the verdant hedge along, 
And wane—and then will come the rose of June. 


SO 


PILGRIMS 

“Men pass; ideas abide .”—The Pilgrim Spirit. 

As travelers from some far-distant place 
Oppressed at home, unwelcomed abroad, 
Imprisoned, scourged, they passed beneath the 
rod. 

As Separatists from the royal grace, 

Undaunted still, with firm uplifted face, 

They sought in faith freely to worship God. 

They planted freedom on an alien sod, 

And found a haven for a free-born race. 

What doth the Pilgrim Spirit signify? 

The hope that sets its temple in the sun, 

The joy that spreads its pinions to the sky, 

The strength that succors till the cause be won, 
The will that triumphs o’er all else beside— 

All men are pilgrims if these faiths abide. 

August 13,1921. 


51 


MEMORIALS 

“This day shall be unto you for a memorial.” 

You honored dead who dying gave your all— 
How can we build a fitting monument 
How can we render just emolument? 

Great deeds were yours—we bring our tributes 
small 

And place them o’er your mounds—the swift 
tears fall. 

Too scanty praise and little deeds are ours 
Which perish like the bloom of summer flowers. 
We dedicate our lives a just memorial. 

The dead in endless cycles still live on. 

The living still like broken blades of grass 
Through life’s predestined change must ever pass. 
Man is his past and is forever born 
Into a world of love as yet unknown, 

Out of sorrow, like a rose full-blown. 


52 


TUT-ANKH-AMEN 

At Luxor in the vale of ancient kings, 

In age-old sleep, within the hollow womb 
Of buried time, lies hid thy royal tomb. 

In land of Thot, where sacred scarab sings 
And scattered dust of vanished splendor clings— 
Here, silent in its long forgotten crypt 
Beneath cartouche and undeciphered script, 

Thy mummy to decay defiance flings. 

Erect as thirty centuries ago, 

Outside thy tomb the gilded statues stand. 
Within thy chamber at thy swift command 
Doth well-provisioned Double come and go. 

From faience couch and alabaster plinth 
Floats a faint perfume like the hyacinth. 


S3 


Certain of the poems have appeared in The 
Portsmouth Times , The Portsmouth Herald , The 
New Hampshire Magazine , The Granite Monthly , 
The Christian Register , and The Boston Evening 
Transcript; to these publications I desire to 
make acknowledgment. “Tercentenary” is 
printed in the Book of The Pageant , as a part of 
the Tercentenary program. 


b. c. w. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 




